


Under an umbrella of sand

by crinkledpages



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Dreamscapes, Fairytale-inspired, Hans Christian Andersen to be exact, M/M, Magical Realism, Temporary Character Death, Yan An is here because cyzj! feels overcame me, also a lot of moon references that just happened for some inexplicable reason, the deaths happen in the dreams and don't translate to irl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinkledpages/pseuds/crinkledpages
Summary: Junhui never used to remember his dreams. But when he finally does, he always dreams of the same boy. He feels so familiar, like home. Yet, the end of every dream always ends with either of them dying, and each time he wakes, there are marks on his body to show that it isn't just a dream after all. And Junhui finds himself wanting to go back, to figure it out, determined to end this cycle, certain that the boy is real, and alive.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58
Collections: ENFANT D'ÉTÉ - ROUND 1





	Under an umbrella of sand

**Author's Note:**

> For ENFANT D'ÉTÉ Round One.
> 
> As mentioned in the tags above, there's attempted suicide here, and for those of you who want to avoid reading that part, it starts from the paragraph beginning with: "He grabbed his dream journal and his phone..."
> 
> If you need to/want to skip that part, you can skip to this paragraph: "When Eight's voice rippled out..."

There was a man who lived on the moon, of that Junhui was sure.

The fact that there were too many legends and Chinese folktales around meant the stories couldn’t all be a lie, and whenever he looked up into the bright full moon and saw a shadow of what looked like a man hunched in the shape of a crescent moon, Junhui couldn’t believe that it was just a myth. No, there was a man who lived on the moon, and Junhui wished that fairytales could come true, and that he’d be thrown into the throes of some great big adventure and whisked away to the distant moon, or anywhere else, just away from here.

He imagined that his body was made up of a thousand jigsaw puzzle pieces, and that a part of him could fit into anyone’s lives, if he tried, or if they noticed. Sometimes, when he looked into the mirror, he saw someone who was worth giving another glance at. But when his hair was particularly frizzier, or when the underside of his eyes seemed bruised, dark circles coloured a bit more prominent black, was when it seemed all the more apparent that he would never fit anywhere, and that his puzzle pieces would always be cut a different way. On days like those, he wondered how he could have inherited the beauty of his father’s round eyes and heart-shaped lips and his mother’s button nose and soft chin, because it looked like a mosaic gone wrong. 

He checked the state of his hair using his phone camera, and noted the sleep lines gently carved into his face, like a mark of how peaceful his sleep had been. His nose wrinkled as he tried to pull memories of any dream he might have had, but none surfaced. It had always been like this, never quite able to stay within the planes of both wakefulness and sleep long enough to capture even the tendrils of a dream. He wondered at the vast number of worlds he could have already crossed into, but would never know or remember.

Outside, a mynah screeched out its morning cry. A tiny groan escaped his lips as he rose from the bed, moving closer to the sound, unlocking the handle and pushing the window out to the fresh smells of stir-fry and steamed meat buns. This was Guangdong as he knew it - raw, boisterous, and coarse – and he loved it. Summer didn’t see bright yellow beams of sunshine in Guangdong, but rather, it crowned a cloudy mist of rain with weak rays of sun piercing through the city and breathed gales of warmth into the streets, a weather pattern that was common for these coastal parts.

He could hear the sound of bicycles whistling past down below, the wheels spinning furiously, bound for the nearby park. Junhui was a frequent visitor himself, and thoroughly enjoyed burying his nose into a book for the entire afternoon in exchange for not having to brave the inquisitive questions from his mother, even if it meant missing out on an afternoon snack of sliced fruits or sometimes, if his aunt dropped by and had felt particularly indulgent, a box of winter melon pastries.

It was too hot to keep the window open for long. _“Better to let the heat in than keep the stale air in,”_ his mother would always say, but he typically disagreed with his mother on a lot of fronts, and so he shut the window and drew the curtains closed, and his room was obscured in shadow once more.

He scanned the bookshelf for a suitable book to accompany him for the afternoon, and finally settled on a worn paperback of Bridge to Terabithia. Nothing too mind-bending, but just the right amount of somber to keep him occupied for the day. He swept that into his shoulder bag along with his wallet. 

Junhui knew that if he went downstairs now, that there would be a steaming bowl of fish congee waiting for him - one of his mother’s specialties. It was meant to be for breakfast, but he always woke late on the weekends.

“Mom?” He peered his head into the kitchen, and the smell of home-cooked food seemed to form a giant blanket of comfort and settle like a warm cloud above his head. 

Sure enough, a bowl of congee with a netted plastic food cover placed over it rested on the dining table – just as he had known it would be. His mother was by the sink washing a stack of bowls and soup spoons. 

“There’s hot barley on the stove. I’ll pour some into a glass for you.” Junhui didn’t particularly like barley, but he held his tongue. When his mother placed the glass before him, his head bobbed dutifully in gratitude, hands reaching to take the tall glass quickly. The white beans gathered and swirled at the bottom, and he’d have to eat those too.

Junhui drained the glass in tiny sips, pretending to savour the way the drink warmed his throat and belly. It wasn’t that it was unpleasant so much as it was a drink that he had always been forced to drink, so it always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“More?” His mother always asked this, as if always hoping for a different answer, and Junhui always said no.

“No, thank you.” He set the empty glass back onto the wooden table, taking care not to make any noise while doing so. 

He stood up. “I’m going to the park.” He could feel her gaze boring into the back of his head, willing him to stay inside for once. To stay with her. But he had always disappointed her in many ways.

“It looks like it might rain today,” she said, and a piece of desperation seemed to tangle itself into her words, and Junhui had to remember to harden himself against it. 

Junhui nodded in agreement, even though the sun was high in the sky outside and they could both feel the heat seeping into their bones. “I’ll bring an umbrella,” he said, tone conceding, mouth softening just a little.

“Home by five?”

“Mmm.” He tucked his phone into his pocket and it was an effort not to look back at her when he closed the front door with a quiet click. 

*** 

The park felt like a tiny home away from home. With the gentle breeze running through his hair and the trees stretching their branches out protectively above him, there was always a sense that they were always waiting for him. 

There was a particular spot that he had “marked” as his, because it was a little more shrouded by the overhanging branches, and a little further away from the other benches, with its own pathway of flower beds and stones circling the long bench. It could comfortably seat three people, but usually Junhui didn’t even have to share his space. Sometimes, he’d buy a box of takeaway meat buns and a warm cup of Oolong tea to snack on if he left early enough that he could spend at least five hours outside. 

He pulled the copy of Bridge to Terabithia out from his bag, flipping to chapter two because he didn’t feel like coursing through the introductory part. He felt very much like Jesse sometimes - poor, lonely, introverted, the sad protagonist with only a sad close to his story. The only thing he didn’t have was a Leslie. Or a dream kingdom to rule over. Maybe this park could be his special place. 

Junhui thumbed the pages of the book, casting a wistful glance at the kids playing a noisy game of hide-and-seek across the other side of the park before returning his attention to the book. He’d gotten as far as nine pages, but the sun overhead seemed to be burning great waves of heat into his skin, and it was hard to concentrate on the world-building when beads of sweat were matting his forehead and collecting at the back of his shirt. He half-wished that the sun was the moon instead because it really was too hot for his liking.

With a sigh, he chucked the book back into his bag and used the bag as a makeshift pillow, throwing a hand over his eyes to block out the light. If he couldn’t read, he might as while grab some shuteye. He let his mind run wild with what-ifs about the park as Terabithia, letting the sounds of laughter and birds squawking wash over and around him. It was an odd rhythm that built up, and very soon he was drifting off. 

***

A drop of water hit his nose. _Shit_ , he cursed inwardly. Mom was right. 

Eyes still closed, he fumbled for the bag beneath his head to fish out the umbrella, not quite ready to be pulled from the fuzzy shroud of a pleasant sleep.

His fingers landed on a bed of something soft and wet instead of the hardness of the bench, and he could sink his finger into it. It felt almost like…sand?

His eyes flew open and he sat up in a flurry. Sure enough, he was at a beach, and somehow he’d ended up just twenty feet or so from the shoreline, close enough to feel the mist of the crashing waves. He didn’t know which beach it was - it wasn’t Guangdong for sure - or whether it was even real at all, only that he could see a great blue ocean that stretched for miles, could feel his body flush against cold, wet sand, and taste salty droplets against his lips when the larger waves rolled in. He was sitting alone one second and the next a boy was standing before him, and relief at seeing someone else punctured the wall of anxiety in his stomach.

“Hello.” Junhui’s native Cantonese sounded even more melodious when spoken by this stranger. He seemed unruffled at the current state of events, and at having chanced upon a sleeping boy in the middle of the beach, as if it was perfectly normal for someone to be sleeping by the shore on a bed of damp sand.

“Hello.’ Junhui tried to match his tone with the same level of impassivity as he could while still lying on the ground, and pasted on a smile that came out more like a grimace.

“I’m Eight.”

“Eight?”

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?” Eight asked, cocking his head to the side, and Junhui quickly blustered out a no.

“I’m Junhui.” He was standing now too, in an effort to not appear rude. He stuck out an awkward hand, but Eight thankfully returned the gesture and shook his hand lightly. It was warm to the touch, and his fingers were soft and slender, much like the willowy figure he cut. He was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and light blue capri pants, clearly more fitting for the cold front than Junhui’s short-sleeved navy blue tee and denim shorts. 

“This is a nice place, isn’t it?” Eight gestured to nowhere in particular, and Junhui, who cared nothing for the outdoors save for the park, found himself agreeing.

“The wind is nice,” he murmured.

This made Eight laugh, and the way he threw his head back to expose the white of his neck drew Junhui in. 

Eight wedged his feet deeper into the sand to kick a large clump up into the oncoming tide. They were standing side by side now, facing the water, looking out yonder into the endless blue. An odd feeling struck Junhui, that this was the most peaceful he had felt in a while. 

“I prefer the sand.” He could see a smile follow Eight’s words from the corner of his eye, and he found himself breaking into a wide gummy grin too.

He kicked out some sand into the water, mirroring Eight. Personally, he couldn’t see anything particularly great about the sand. It was cold, and clumpy, and uninspiring. He turned to Eight to tell him so. 

Except that deep slashes of blood seemed to be seeping through Eight's white button-down, and when he tried to speak, spurts of blood coughed out instead. A shriek spilt from Junhui's throat, and he reached out his hands toward him to try to help somehow. In a matter of mere seconds, his entire torso was stained red. Junhui was struck dumb.

“Eight,” he choked out. “Eight, I –“ His hands shook violently, still outstretched and hanging uselessly. There was no one to call. Eight’s scream ricocheted through the wide expanse of sand, sea, and open air, and Junhui was slowly coming to the terrifying realisation that he was the only person who could help. It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of nowhere, or that the two of them had just fallen into this together. Eight was bleeding profusely, losing too much blood too fast, and incompetent as he was, Junhui had to put the strangeness of this all aside and be the one to do something about it.

Eight’s knees gave way, and Junhui found himself following the motion, and his own knees came down hard onto the ground, granules of sand digging tiny cuts into his bare skin. And there they were again - eye to eye, fear mirrored in both.

The boy’s mouth moved, a futile attempt to speak around the pool of blood pouring from his lips – maybe call his name – but everything was a garbled striking red. The smell of copper was nauseating, and he didn’t think he would be of much use after all. 

Eight writhed and his body tipped forward onto the ground, and Junhui finally sprung from motionlessness to grab his hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.” It was pure nonsense, whatever was coming out of his mouth, but at the very least, Eight was clutching his hand tightly, tears leaking bloody trails down his eyes, and Junhui wasn’t about to let go. 

Something instinctive spurred him to card another hand through his hair, painting red streaks on his forehead and scalp. “Ssh, ssh, I’m here, I’ve got you, Eight, Eight, I’m here.”

He squeezed his hand once more, blood squelching in between their palms, and when he took in a sharp breath the copper smell had properly pervaded the salty air, wafting into his nose. A spell of dizziness pierced his senses, and then all he could see was black.

***

Junhui woke screaming for Eight. 

His hands were fisted in his bag, and the corners of his eyes were blinded by an onset of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. _Eight _, he thought, “Eight!” He threw out the name once more.__

____

It was completely natural to Junhui, that even in the park with daylight still scrubbing at the edge of dusk, with nary a beach nor ocean in sight, that he still looked for Eight. The dream had been so real - too real - and he still felt so acutely where Eight had gripped his hand so tightly in his, clinging on to Junhui like his lifeline. His fingers were aching, somehow. He looked down to massage them gently, and saw that there was a faint red colouring on them, as if he’d dipped them in paint and hadn’t properly washed it off. He smeared a bit of saliva on the groove between his thumb and forefinger in place of water and rubbed at it, but the colour remained. How...?

____

_Blood_. His mind played through their intertwined fingers soaked in Eight’s blood, and his stomach churned. No, it couldn’t be, and yet...yet it was too coincidental and too right to brush off. His heart picked up speed, and he could feel his pulse beating wildly in his ears. Somewhere in his brain, he knew that it was absolutely true, that he had somehow come straight out of a dream that wasn’t fully a dream. It had happened but he just didn’t know _how _. But he swallowed this thought before the anxiety ate him up and showed on his face when he got home. It wouldn’t escape his mother, and that was an even more terrifying thought. All the questions and digging that he wouldn’t be able to answer, and the real answer that he didn’t want to have to look at square in the face.__

______ _ _

He got up from the bench and slung his bag over his shoulders. It was still early afternoon, too early than he’d normally like to head home, but he was afraid of falling back into the dream and worse still, in the open, outside of the safety of his bedroom. 

______ _ _

His shoulders hiked up as his hands flew up to cling to the straps as he walked the short way home. If he didn’t hold on to something he was sure his hands would keep shaking. During the entire fifteen-minute walk home, he swore he could see Eight’s fearful blood-rimmed eyes on every passer-by’s face.

______ _ _

_Just a dream_ , _Jun_ , he whispered to himself like a broken record on repeat. Just a silly dream.

______ _ _

When he got home, he made a dream journal. 

______ _ _

It was just an old notebook with the first two pages scratched with ugly homework scrawls before being abandoned. He tore them out messily, leaving remnants of small bits of paper still stuck to the margins. He labelled the new first page with a simple ‘Saturday, 18 July, 2020’, before scribbling down whatever he could remember of the endless stretch of the shoreline, Eight, the biting cold wind, Eight’s figure, Eight’s clothes, Eight’s screams, their intertwined hands slick with blood. He twirled the pen around his fingers for a beat or two, reading and re-reading the extraordinary and surreal words across the pages. He hesitated before adding the part about the red stains on his hands.

______ _ _

When he was done, he placed the pen back down on the table and lay his head down on his right arm. He let out a loud exhale as he examined his hands in front of him, tracing over the still-red palms. He didn’t know how long it would last; he hoped that this was just a delusion from the confines of that tiny part of his brain that wished for something unexpected and otherworldly to happen in his boring life.

______ _ _

Because if it wasn’t, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

______ _ _

***

______ _ _

Summer blended the weekends into weekdays. Mornings leaked into afternoons in the blink of an eye because Junhui rarely woke early, while the afternoons were languid periods of reading and laying about in the park or his bedroom. It was already Wednesday, four days after his dream-not-dream. The marks had vanished when he’d woken up the next day, yet he hadn’t been able to stop looking down at them every now and then.

______ _ _

“Hui-ah.”

______ _ _

“Mmm?”

______ _ _

“I got fresh coconuts from the market this morning.” 

______ _ _

_Ahh. Stargazing night._

______ _ _

Usually, the early part of the evening after dinner was spent with his mother watching the daily evening dramas. Sometimes, on cooler nights, his mother would entice him with a glass of cold coconut water and they would sit on the rickety benches downstairs of their flat and watch the stars. When the stars were fainter, they would play pretend, quizzing each other on the lesser-known constellations by making up the patterns they could make out, matching it with the legends behind it. It was their thing. He shared his mother’s enthusiasm for the tales of the skies, as if both of them were searching for something more or bigger than themselves.

______ _ _

Junhui looked up from where he been glancing down at his hands to smile at his mother, a silent yes to her unspoken question.

______ _ _

The benches downstairs had wrought-iron arms coated with a dark green paint already half-peeled off. It gave a loud creak as they plopped down. Once they were comfortably nestled in, his mother handed him the glass of coconut water and he sipped at it gratefully.

______ _ _

“Why do you keep looking at your hands?” She had drunk nearly all of the water already, and her hands clutched the glass tightly, fingers white from their grip. 

______ _ _

Junhui froze, but smoothened his features and kept his voice impassive. His mother rarely missed anything, so he shouldn’t have expected this to go over her head either. “What do you mean?”

______ _ _

“It’s just…every time I look at you these days, you’re staring down at your hands. Did something happen?” She reached out to take his hand in hers, but his fingers twitched and he flinched instinctively. The mistake had been made but he remained stock-still and in silence. Worry found itself on the wrinkles between her brows and in the downturned corners of her mouth.

______ _ _

“There’s nothing wrong with my hands, mom,” he tried to let the words out as calmly as possible. He technically wasn’t lying, but he still felt the ghost of Eight’s hands on his and that somehow felt like lying. 

______ _ _

She had already drawn in a deep breath to speak, and he knew that once she let the worry translate into words, he wouldn’t be left alone for the rest of the summer. Her paranoia would prevent him from going to the park, or being cooped up in his room for hours on end. 

______ _ _

“I just – Mom, do you think I could ever play the piano as well as Dad?”

______ _ _

He pulled his gaze back to his hands, opening his palms face up. Junhui had learnt from his father to counter hard questions with another question, and he used this to his advantage now. Her eyes softened, and she reached out to squeeze his hand in hers.

______ _ _

“Oh, Hui-ah…”

______ _ _

“I know, I know, it’s the money.” He flashed her a watery smile, and squeezed her hand back before withdrawing it to bring the coconut water to his lips. He set the glass on the ground next to the leg of the bench and scooted back to properly regard the stars. 

______ _ _

“I think I can see Cygnus. What about you?”

______ _ _

***

______ _ _

When the second dream came, Junhui felt he had waited a long time in the depths of that ocean, and was finally coming up for air.

______ _ _

The second time, they were in the park. His park. It wasn’t so strange to him, because dreams were, after all, a manifestation of almost any and every thought ever captured and simply brought to life on a different plane.

______ _ _

He didn’t think that he would ever have dreamt of Eight again despite the number of times his face kept popping up in his head every day. _A fever dream, Junhui._ He had convinced himself of this. _A fever dream to delude your lonely soul._

______ _ _

Their eyes met across a bed of ixoras. “Junhui.” That lovely, warm voice. A slight tremor fizzled through his body at the gentle call of his name.

______ _ _

He breathed out a ragged breath. He was alive. “Eight,” he sighed, and reached for him, fingers digging creases into Eight’s shirt. Eight wrapped both hands around his waist, and rested his head briefly on his shoulder. 

______ _ _

Eight donned similar clothing - dark blue jean shorts and an oversized white shirt. He was also barefoot again. Junhui wondered if his brain just wasn’t creative enough to dream up a different wardrobe each time, let alone a pair of shoes. 

______ _ _

Junhui himself appeared in his current clothing – a hole-ridden tee and threadbare cotton drawstring pants. He felt a blush cross his cheeks at the difference, and made up his mind to put on a pair of jeans or brush his hair at the very least.

______ _ _

This was also because he found Eight undeniably gorgeous.

______ _ _

His ink-black hair fell in long, artful strands across his forehead, partially obscuring his left eye. His nose was slender, with a slight bridge, drawing a long line to heart-shaped lips and a sharp chin. His eyes were wide with a slight shine to them, as if they perpetually glistened with a thin film of tears. When placed over each other, his elongated features offered an overall remote countenance, someone inaccessible and distant even on the best of days. Afterwards, whenever he thought of Eight, this would be the exact image brought to mind - this first meeting with someone who was able to make his heart race.

______ _ _

“Eight?” They hadn’t gotten beyond introducing themselves because of his, well, death, so Junhui was going to try to make that happen today. 

______ _ _

“Hmm?” His voice was soft and low when he hummed. His long legs moved into a cross-legged position on the long wooden bench. A fist propped his chin up, while his other hand hung loosely on his lap. Altogether the picture of nonchalance and yet his eyes were full of interest when they met Junhui’s.

______ _ _

“Where are you from?” Perhaps it was a stupid question, because Junhui was very likely dreaming him up himself, but everything felt too real - that hug felt too real - to be just a figment of even his wildest imaginations. A part of Junhui needed Eight to be real, too.

______ _ _

“Is it important that you know?” Eight’s eyes were still on his when he replied, secure in his stubbornness, and Junhui felt the hackles on his arm rise at the challenging tone.

______ _ _

“You know where I’m from,” he countered. “It’s only fair.”

______ _ _

A wry smile bloomed on his lips as if Junhui had said something funny. 

______ _ _

He moved the fist supporting his head to let fall onto his lap, and his head followed the movement too, drooping forward. His eyes were cast downward, and his fringe fluttered over his eyes, forming a veil between them and the world. “China,” Eight finally said. The answer came out lightly, not reluctant but also not quite not-reluctance, and it scared Junhui a little how much he didn’t want to upset him. 

______ _ _

“You spoke in Cantonese to me when we first met, though,” Junhui dared to say, and he thought he saw something flash in Eight’s eyes, a lightning bolt of anger and fear twisted into one that disappeared just as quickly. 

______ _ _

“You muttered something in Cantonese in your sleep when you were lying in the sand,” Eight supplied, and shrugged his shoulders. “I thought speaking in your native dialect would have been a bit more comfortable.”

______ _ _

Oh.

______ _ _

“Oh. Um, thank you,” his voice petered out at the last syllable, and he placed a tentative hand on Eight’s shoulder, and when Eight smiled brightly, the tightness in his chest he hadn’t realised was taut, loosened. He wondered what he’d said before waking up in the dream-beach, but didn’t want to push Eight further.

______ _ _

Eight tilted his head up, and the movement jostled Junhui’s hand off his shoulder. Junhui let it happen. 

______ _ _

“This park is nice, isn’t it?” An echo of Eight’s words at the beach, and he knew that Eight had picked up on it when he grinned.

______ _ _

“Is there a sandpit or a playground here?”

______ _ _

“What is it with you and sand?” He grumbled, but a smile split his lips when the memory of them kicking sand up into the water surfaced. Fortunately for Eight, there was one. He stood up to lead the way, and Eight’s features seemed to perk up just a little. He was an odd person indeed, but it just made him all the more intriguing a person to unlock, piece by piece.

______ _ _

“I just like it,” he said, and well, it wasn’t a proper answer, but Eight looked happy, and it was a start, definitely. 

______ _ _

Junhui knew every nook and cranny of the park, could navigate it with his eyes closed. He had spent his childhood mapping out every inch of this place, and he wanted to show Eight every hidey-hole, that secret patch of grass beyond a particular copse of trees, and even the shortcut along the bicycle pathway that led to a small tuft of beautiful dandelions and when you walked a little further, it would take you to his favourite fruit stall, which sold the best mangosteens. They were in season now, too.

______ _ _

The sandpit was in the middle of the park to give the children more space to play. It hadn’t been Junhui’s favourite place here – he had always been left out during hide-and-seek games, and anyway, he had always preferred to stay curled up in the grass patch with a book.

______ _ _

Junhui made to point at the giant playground as they skipped over a row of well-maintained bougainvillaea bushes. He rubbed at his arm, gently pressing down on it. It had felt itchy during the walk here, but then again, he had been wearing this pair of pyjamas two days in a row. “Well, here we are. The sandpit, to accommodate your sand fetish."

______ _ _

Eight laughed and whacked Junhui’s arm playfully, but the contact sent a red-hot stab of pain up the entire length of his arm and he let out a cry.

______ _ _

“Junhui?” 

______ _ _

“Shit, that hurt. How much did you pack into that punch?” He coughed out a chuckle and tried to keep voice light, but the pain had now trailed to his torso, and both his arms and chest felt compressed and on fire at the same time. It burned. He tried to suck in a gulp of air, but found that the pressure on his chest didn’t allow him to, and he choked on nothing. He collapsed to the ground, eyes wide with fear and shock. _What was happening? ___

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui? What’s happening!” His thoughts were echoed by Eight, and the boy ran his hands up Junhui’s arms, his touch tender and light as a butterfly’s, as if afraid to touch for fear of hurting him, which was right because it was as if the slight contact did turn the burn up a notch, and he screamed. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Burns. Can’t breathe,” he managed to wheeze out before his throat suddenly constricted. _Help me_ , he pleaded with his eyes, but he could see the same look in Eight’s eyes that he had had when Eight was bleeding out, and somehow knew then that there was no route to safety. Only death.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui closed his eyes and stopped fighting, and hoped that that would bring the end closer. He wished that he could feel Eight’s hands in his, feel the same comfort he had tried to give Eight, but everywhere was fire, and he wasn’t able to feel anything other than the crushing flames engulfing him.

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

Usually, it was him who died. This boy in his dreams. Not of his dreams, but _in_ his dreams.

________ _ _ _ _

Meaning that more often than not, Junhui found himself cradling Eight in his arms, shushing him to embrace the darkness with gentle coos and a hand in his.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui has wisened up, has learnt to cover up the traces of either of their deaths with careful precision. This second time, the marks had appeared as red tendrils that looped around his arms and ribcage, like the shadow of a python’s body squeezing the life out of him. 

________ _ _ _ _

The third time, when Junhui had been strangled, the marks had circled the back of his neck, so he hadn’t been able to catch that. His mother had pointed it out the red finger marks across the nape with a mild shriek, but he’d blurted out something about horsing around with Wonwoo, one of five Korean students who attended his university full-time and who had become a close friend since first year, and she had put it to rest. 

________ _ _ _ _

Now, every time he woke from these dreams, he stripped off all his clothes and scrutinised his entire body. There were always remnants of either of their deaths, and always a deep red at first, before fading over. He went over the new set of thin red scratch lines trailing the length of his calf - courtesy of Eight from his sixth dream - already healing and scabbing over. They had been an ugly, bright red last week, and he had had to wear long-sleeved tops even though it was now August and they were knee-deep in summer.

________ _ _ _ _

He had told Eight about Terabithia during their seventh meeting, when Eight had asked to show him what he carried in his bag. The book in question hadn’t been Bridge to Terabithia (it was actually The Spiderwick Chronicles) but he had rattled off his top ten all the same, and had mentioned how like Jesse he had felt, and how this place with Eight reminded him of what he imagined Terabithia to be like – a place they could call their own and a sanctuary they could turn to. Two hidden princes in a hidden kingdom, on a hidden plane that was open only to them.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui was actually starting to look forward to seeing the marks, because it was a sign that every moment with Eight was real. It was like a secret that he wanted to keep so badly to himself yet also scream out loud to the rest of the world. 

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

It was a Tuesday, meaning Junhui didn’t have to come in to work today. His mother had arm-twisted him to take up a part-time job and help out at the Chinese restaurant just five-minutes walk from their flat on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Today, Junhui had cooped himself up in his room. Rain beat down on the roof in heavy sheets, and sluiced down his bedroom window in a steady rhythm. The water formed a curtain over the glass, blurring Junhui’s view of the street outside. Like this, drenched in almost-darkness and any noise from the outside muffled, Junhui found it easy to be lulled to sleep.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui didn’t know how exactly to control these dreams. There was no exact science to it. He tried to, so hard, but Eight never seemed to appear when he actually wanted him to. It was as if the dreamworld was teasing him, never giving him what he wanted when he wanted it.

________ _ _ _ _

Lucid dreaming, they called it. He had tried googling a few ways but all had come up useless. 

________ _ _ _ _

  1. Try to walk through the target dream in the exact sequence you expect it in **your** dream.
  2. Think hard, but maintain a calm posture. Do not get tense. Just relax.
  3. Go to sleep with these images and sounds in **your** head. Remember to record **your dreams** , whatever they are, when you wake up.



________ _ _ _ _

This was called the reflection technique, and it involved asking yourself throughout the day if you were awake or dreaming. Junhui thought that part was extremely stupid, but he supposed with the number of times he kept seeing Eight’s face everywhere it went, his sanity was highly questionable.

________ _ _ _ _

He turned off the lamp at the bedside table quickly and pulled the blankets up to his chin. It was only three in the afternoon, and his mother was out visiting his grandmother. He had declined the visit, citing an oncoming cough.

________ _ _ _ _

The room was blanketed in darkness, and he closed his eyes, emptying his mind of everything but the sound of the rain outside. It had taken a lot of practice to fall asleep at strange hours, but he was determined to portal himself into dreamland, or Eightland. When there was no rain, he found that listening to a playlist of rain sounds worked.

________ _ _ _ _

Eight, for his part, never seemed to realise that either of them always met their end after each meeting, and welcomed Junhui with a gentle smile that made the corners of his lips curve up just so. Junhui had alluded to it during their fifth meeting, but Eight had looked at him quizzically, and he’d dropped it. It was like they were in a warped reimagining of Groundhog Day, with Junhui the only one who kept his memories. But Junhui supposed that that was for the best. Better for at least one of them to be left in the dark and never having to relive the pain of dying or watching the other die.

________ _ _ _ _

Before Eight, Junhui never thought much about having a friend. Or the importance of remembering his dreams, or what it was like to feel death.

________ _ _ _ _

But they occupied his mind now. Unequivocally so.

________ _ _ _ _

There was something about this chain of dreams that told Junhui that there was something to figure out, a puzzle to be solved. Their deaths weren’t just sadistic imaginings on Junhui’s part. He felt that they were being toyed with by something larger-than-life, as if they weren’t the rulers of their own Terabithia, and felt like he owed it to Eight to find a way to end this even if it meant he’d never get to see Eight again. He imagined an Eight sleeping soundly in another part of China, dying and waking up just like him, but without any memory. So he had to be the one to.

________ _ _ _ _

_Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep,_ he willed himself, enchanting his brain, and eventually, sleep did finally embrace him.

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui.”

________ _ _ _ _

The dreams usually began with Eight calling his name. It had been like this every single time except the first, when Eight had said hello, when they were just strangers who had converged at the precipice of an alien world.

________ _ _ _ _

“Hi, Eight.” Junhui plopped himself onto the park bench without grace. Their dreams always took place in the park now too, as if the universe was cruel enough to turn Junhui’s haven into one ridden with nightmares.

________ _ _ _ _

Eight was already on the bench, leaning his head back to stare up into the sky. He was blinding, the way the sun fell on him just right to outline the perfect angles of his face into a burning glow. He always had an aura of something-other, a someone who held everyone at arm's length, who had a temporary presence in everyone's lives, gliding and moving on when he wished. He swallowed deeply when he sat down next to him, but was bold enough to lean his head on his shoulder.

________ _ _ _ _

“What are you thinking about?” He kept his voice at a whisper, so as not to break Eight from his thoughts. He always had on a contemplative look that made him seem even more faraway.

________ _ _ _ _

“Nothing much, just the moon.” 

________ _ _ _ _

“The moon?” He quirked an eyebrow up in interest and turned his cheek so he was looking up at him through his lashes, head still pillowed on his shoulder. “Do you believe that a man lives on the moon?” The words escaped him before he realised that it might have been too revealing of his like for childish fairytales.

________ _ _ _ _

That made Eight turn swiftly to Junhui. “Why?” His voice was sharp, his gaze alert. Junhui wilted a bit under it but forged onwards to answer.

________ _ _ _ _

“Nothing, just that my mother loved telling me stories about the moon and the stars when I was a kid, so the stories kind of stuck with me, and while I know it might be a little childish, I think that a man really does live on the moon, and maybe...with his dog.”

________ _ _ _ _

He bit his lip at the end of his long spiel and readied himself for the possibility of Eight laughing at him.

________ _ _ _ _

There was a soft huff, and then the shoulder beneath his cheek trembled. “You’re laughing at me,” Junhui sighed, but was relieved to see that the hardness in his shoulders and his eyes had vanished.

________ _ _ _ _

“No, I’m laughing because you’re cute.” He ruffled Junhui’s hair. “I just didn’t expect to meet someone else who believed in fairytales about the moon.”

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui’s heart thumped hard against his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

________ _ _ _ _

“Wait, you do?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Yeah.” Eight’s eyes became crescents whenever a more genuine smile graced his mouth. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Which stories are your favourite? Mine’s –”

________ _ _ _ _

“Chang-E,” Eight finished at the same time as Junhui, and Junhui was too surprised to be annoyed at the smugness that decorated the entirety of his face.

________ _ _ _ _

“Am I that predictable?” He knew he was a sucker for star-crossed lovers and love stories, but hadn’t expected Eight to read him so well.

________ _ _ _ _

“What do you think?” It was slightly maddening how Eight always attempted to dodge even the simplest of questions, but Junhui was determined to break through his walls, even if it meant countless meetings, and well, deaths.

________ _ _ _ _

He tossed his head in favour of an answer. He still hadn’t lifted his head off his shoulder, and hoped that Eight wouldn’t move anytime soon.

________ _ _ _ _

A few seconds of silence followed before Eight finally spoke. “Have you ever heard of the Sandman?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Like in Neil Gaiman’s comics?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Yes, and no.” Eight shifted to sit up properly, and Junhui regretfully angled his head to tip against the bench instead.

________ _ _ _ _

“Want me to tell you a story, then?” It wasn’t often that Eight volunteered to talk more beyond answering Junhui’s questions, and warmth and a spike of ecstasy wedged itself deep in his stomach.

________ _ _ _ _

“What kind of story?”

________ _ _ _ _

“A good one.” A light chuckle followed.

________ _ _ _ _

He felt Eight reach for his hands, tugging him up and away from the bench, towards him. A bed had somehow appeared, but to Junhui all things were possible, because this was a dream. He loved the little details that inserted themselves into his dream - a colourful rug much like the one in his room, a spray of books on the bedside table, a black polaroid camera that was exactly the same as the one Eight sometimes hung around his neck, except it was mint green now - like little bits of his personality and preferences somehow were able to seep into the dream, making it his own. He wondered if parts of the dream were Eight’s.

________ _ _ _ _

They fell into a plush mattress, soft sheets rustling with the movement. Junhui let out a loud guffaw as his back met Eight’s chest hard, and he choked on his own breath when he felt all the hard planes of Eight’s body lined up against him. The sun and the park were gone, replaced with this shadow-bedroom. In the semi-darkness, with his back to Eight’s, everything was new and unpredictable and frightening. This was brand new territory, and again, everything was out of Junhui’s control.

________ _ _ _ _

He turned around so they were facing each other and both of them arranged the covers wordlessly, drawing it up and over them. Eight blinked slowly, letting a wave of silence settle so he could begin.

________ _ _ _ _

“The Sandman is a storyteller, and a dream-maker. Every night, armed with one umbrella in each hand, he arrives noiselessly at each child’s bedroom door, bringing the promise of sweet, beautiful dreams. He creeps up to each child sound asleep before him, and sprinkles a shower of fine dust into their eyes so that they won’t be able to open them wide enough to recognise him. And then, he blows softly on their necks, until they nod off to sleep.”

________ _ _ _ _

He paused to take a breath, and his eyes never left Junhui’s all the while. Eight lifted a hand to brush a strand of Junhui’s hair behind his ear, and then he let it rest on the pillow next to his head.

________ _ _ _ _

“Once the child is asleep, the Sandman sits himself on the bed, readying himself to give them the dreams they deserve. Under each arm he carries an umbrella; one of them, with pictures on the inside, he spreads over the good children, and then they dream the most beautiful stories the whole night. But the other umbrella has no pictures, and this he holds over the naughty children so that they sleep heavily, and wake in the morning without having dreams at all. Once he has granted every child a dream or a nightmare, he opens his umbrellas and lets the North Wind carry him up up and away to the moon, where he rests for the day until night comes around once more.”

________ _ _ _ _

He told the story of a girl who slipped into sleep with a sprinkle of sand and a huff into her neck. In her dream, she took the Sandman's hand and launched themselves into the open night, letting the wind take them to any and every world that she wished to see. There were different cities every night, and the Sandman took her to each desired world, never letting go of her hand. Then, when the sun peeked over the horizon, he would return her to her bed, and she would awaken with rheum crusted in her eyes, a sign that she had been in the presence of the Sandman. Junhui listened intently, enthralled. “That was…amazing. Is there more to it?”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight shook his head. “It’s a story by Hans Christian Andersen. Of course, his story was a bit longer, but the one I just told you is basically the same thing. It was written in Danish originally, and the Sandman’s name is Ole-Luk-Oie.”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight’s long fringe fell over his eyes as it was usually wont to do, and Junhui liked him like this – soft, relaxed, and open. “I like the Sandman though, it has a nice ring to it,” he continued, and there was a slight petulance in there that Junhui found odd but nevertheless endearing.

________ _ _ _ _

“Me too,” Junhui muttered shyly. He glanced down at the sheets, noting that the fabric was silken. 

________ _ _ _ _

A hand came up and over his cheek, stroking it with a slow, aching kind of tenderness, the kind that made Junhui knew would only be his to treasure and would only last for as long as they were in this bubble. His heart stuttered and he knew that his face all the way to the tips of his ears were coloured a faint pink.

________ _ _ _ _

“Um, Eight, I –“ He began, but was just as quickly cut off by Eight sweeping a finger across his mouth.

________ _ _ _ _

“Turn around.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Eight –“

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui. Please.” Junhui didn’t think he’d heard Eight utter a word of pleases or thank yous before, so he obeyed.

________ _ _ _ _

This dream had lasted for an unusually longer period of time than the others, which made the anticipation of their end even more harrowing. He didn’t know how long he could play this waiting time before the tension displayed itself visibly on his face. His hands had already begun to shake under the covers and he clenched his teeth and clasped both hands together to stave off the traitorous shudders.

________ _ _ _ _

Behind him, Eight wrapped a strong arm around his waist, pulling them even closer. If Junhui hadn’t been biting down on his own teeth, he would have gasped.

________ _ _ _ _

And then he began to sing.

________ _ _ _ _

_“Can you hear the night's deep song?_  
_All the shadows say_

________ _ _ _ _

_Telling you when you're asleep_  
_Tears will fade away”_

________ _ _ _ _

Eight whisper-sung this into his ear, voice deep and breathy. A fog seemed to form over his head, and the barest of brushes of Eight’s hand could be felt, as if there was some unsureness on his part, before he decisively wove his hands in-between Junhui’s and twined his fingers with Junhui’s under the covers. Junhui shivered but didn’t move for fear of the touch receding.

________ _ _ _ _

_"Dream of morning's golden light_  
_When you and I will leave the night_

________ _ _ _ _

_"And when the moon is high and bright_  
_Stars will shine on you_

________ _ _ _ _

_Make a wish and when you close your eyes_  
_I will come to you”_

________ _ _ _ _

Eight’s breath tickled his ear, and Junhui’s fingers tightened their grip with Eight’s. Eight singing to him only dialled up the edginess, but he would rather have this than not at all. Here, in this dream, he felt he could be the Junhui that he fought to see in the mirror everyday. He could be brave, and handsome, and his puzzle pieces would fit. He could be someone worth wanting. He could be the Jesse to Eight’s Leslie.

________ _ _ _ _

“What song is that? It’s beautiful.” He could listen to Eight sing forever. The more he sang, the more layers his voice seemed to take on, coming together to form a reverberating chorus of all of Eight’s voices in varying octaves. It was lovely, and he felt pulled to the deep waters of a sleep that promised a Garden of Eden-esque of dreams, with the gates locked to keep out the black, angry nightmares. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Make a wish, Junhui,” Eight spoke this into his nape instead of a real answer, and where his lips brushed against the skin was fever-hot. 

________ _ _ _ _

“I wish.” His words caught in his throat. Would this change things? Perhaps this was the last of such a moment they would ever have between them. A dream within a dream. Perhaps the next time he closed his eyes and saw Eight, the dream gods would have fixed this anomaly, and they would be back at the park bench, each occupying one side, a single seat between them that would feel like an ocean’s width apart. 

________ _ _ _ _

He felt Eight press his mouth against the back of his neck, and when Eight blew onto the same spot, it set off an electrifying spark that travelled across his entire body, and he gasped loudly into the open air, fingers and toes curled with an odd sense of pleasure.

________ _ _ _ _

“Say it.” His voice rang out in a layered melody, soft, lilting, and sonorous like a harp. 

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui gave up, and gave in. 

________ _ _ _ _

“I wish that this dream would never end.”

________ _ _ _ _

There. He had said it. He was glad that he wasn’t facing Eight now, so that he wouldn’t have to see those eyes turn hateful, disgusted, or distant. He wondered which one of them it would be today, to fade away from the world, to feel their soul leave their bodies slowly and painfully.

________ _ _ _ _

It felt like a long time passed in silence, neither of them moving or speaking, Junhui’s head tucked into his neck, heart ready to be drowned in rejection and loneliness, regressing into a pre-Leslie Jesse. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Thank you.” Eight’s voice penetrated the darkness once more, and there was another soft kiss before he blew on his nape again. 

________ _ _ _ _

He felt his eyes flutter closed, and sleep crept up on him. 

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

Wakefulness came to him almost immediately, and Junhui was terrified, because neither of them had died. Something had changed.

________ _ _ _ _

He dashed to the bathroom and tore off his clothes. Nothing. No mark, not even on the back of his neck or his fingers which still felt hot where Eight had touched.

________ _ _ _ _

_Shitshitshit_ , he cursed aloud.

________ _ _ _ _

What did it mean, that there were no more marks? Did it mean that his dreams with Eight had come to an end? _No, Junhui, maybe the marks appear later this time?_ But the thought that neither of them had died still disturbed him. Maybe he had “died” in his sleep? But all the deaths had been bloody and excruciating so far. So many questions, but no answers. So many clouds of doubt that piled themselves one after another.

________ _ _ _ _

He went downstairs to get a glass of water and some fruit in the hope that his befuddled mind would clear a little.

________ _ _ _ _

“Hui-ah, did you just wake up?” 

________ _ _ _ _

He jumped at his mother’s voice.

________ _ _ _ _

“Mom! Why’re you home?” The question came out wrong, and he considered correcting himself, but his mouth betrayed him and stayed clamped. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Meiying asked to take on an extra shift, I thought I told you that yesterday.” The hurt was evident on her face, and Junhui felt like an asshole.

________ _ _ _ _

“I’m sorry, Mom. I just…forgot, so you scared me.” He padded quickly to the cupboard, taking out two glasses and two bowls instead of just the one. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Want some fruit? I was gonna slice some watermelons.”

________ _ _ _ _

She nodded stiffly, and pulled out a chair to sit.

________ _ _ _ _

“How is working at Mrs. Yan’s? She said you’ve been a great help and that she’s been getting more customers since you started.” She leaned forward when Junhui set the two glasses of lukewarm water down before he turned back to attend to the watermelons. 

________ _ _ _ _

“She has?” He asked doubtfully. “She’s always had a lot of regulars, even on the weekdays.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Well, her regulars say you’re very sweet to them,” she insisted. He didn’t say anything, and sliced a few more pieces before wrapping the rest and putting in back into the fridge.

________ _ _ _ _

He carried the bowls to the table and pulled out a chair on the opposite side so they could talk comfortably. “I like working there. I get to eat her grilled pork and pork rib soup in exchange for cleaning the tables and washing the dishes. It’s great.” 

________ _ _ _ _

His mother rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “I heard from Mrs. Yan that her son is visiting from Shanghai.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Oh. That sounds nice.”

________ _ _ _ _

“I invited them both over for dinner on Saturday.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Mom!”

________ _ _ _ _

“What? It’s the least I can do since she’s feeding you three times a week. Also, Yan An is your age.”

________ _ _ _ _

Oh, he knew what this was about now.

________ _ _ _ _

“I don’t need new friends, Mom,” he gritted out, scowling into his bowl.

________ _ _ _ _

“I didn’t say that you needed new friends, Hui-ah," she sighed. "But Yan An seems nice and he doesn’t know anyone else here, so I thought it would be nice if you could show him around.” She gave him the look that told him he really didn’t have a choice in the matter. He hated it all.

________ _ _ _ _

“How long will he be here for?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Until the Mid-Autumn Festival.” Junhui groaned loudly - that was at least another three more weeks.

________ _ _ _ _

“Doesn’t he have school?” He put his head in his arms, mindful that his fingers were still sticky with watermelon juice.

________ _ _ _ _

“The new university term begins after September 1st, Hui-ah,” her voice was resigned. Right, Junhui had forgotten.

________ _ _ _ _

“Ugh,” he mumbled from beneath the cover of his arms.

________ _ _ _ _

“Hui-ah, please be nice to him when he’s here.”

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui just let out another string of incomprehensible noises, and hoped that he wouldn’t be too awkward for the next month.

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

His mother had conveniently left out the fact that Yan An was jaw-droppingly handsome. It really was unfair how his mediocrity seemed to shine everywhere he went, and now he couldn’t even catch a break in his own house.

________ _ _ _ _

“Hello, it’s Junhui, right?” Yan An had kind eyes and a friendly smile, which made Junhui feel even more unworthy of being the good friend that his mother wanted him to be. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Yeah. Yan An right?” He hoped Yan An wasn’t the sort who asked too many questions.

________ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, but you can just call me An, or An An. That’s what all my friends call me.” He smiled again, and Junhui quickly nodded and smiled back.

________ _ _ _ _

Trying not to disappoint or upset his mom had taken a lot of effort, and in his agitated state, all thoughts of Eight had been locked into a corner that he would only allow himself to access once the Yans went home. He hadn’t dreamt once about Eight for the past three days, and while there had been no definite period of time between any of the dreams, he was more anxious as each day passed and no mark bloomed on any part of his body.

________ _ _ _ _

“Wanna see my room?” If anything, a tour was the best way to pass the time until dinner.

________ _ _ _ _

“Sure.” Yan An shrugged his shoulders, and just for a split-second, he saw Eight in him - the casual way their shoulders lifted and dropped, the way their fringe fluttered over their eyes exactly the same. God, how Junhui missed him.

________ _ _ _ _

“What?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Uh, nothing, just remembered something I forgot to do,” he mumbled, and started up the stairs.

________ _ _ _ _

There wasn’t really much to Junhui’s room - just a whole lot of books strewn about everywhere, but Yan An didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his eyes had lit up in excitement when he’d noticed the large bookshelf in the corner, and in the five minutes since he had already pulled out a few copies that he’d read before and were some of his favourites. Junhui was starting to feel a kind of kinship with him.

________ _ _ _ _

“Do you like mystery? I’ve read a couple of authors who’re really good.”

________ _ _ _ _

“I’ve read a few local authors, but that’s about it. But yeah, some recommendations would be great.” Fantasy was more his cup of tea, but Yan An had been so friendly and enthusiastic so far, and he didn’t want to be the one to blow out the fire in his eyes.

________ _ _ _ _

Yan An positively beamed, and he really was quite striking. Junhui was sure that Yan An was popular back in Shanghai, with his model looks and height, his kindness, and his ability to make people feel at ease no matter the conversation or the person.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui lent him a few books to take home, with the promise that Yan An would read them and give his honest opinions, as well as a list of good mystery books the next time they met. Yes, Yan An had actually gotten Junhui to agree to meet people outside of Wonwoo.

________ _ _ _ _

Dinner later wasn't as awkward as Junhui had envisioned, and he was relieved to see his mother smile at him in approval when he offered to make them a pot of tea after dinner. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui likes stargazing,” his mother remarked with a glint in her eye to Yan An when she was clearing the plates. “Hui-ah, you should show him your books on constellations and go downstairs to show him too. It seems as if a lot of stars are out tonight. I’m sure Yan An would love it.”

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui had in fact, purposely left out the books on stars earlier, because he hadn’t wanted to share that part of him with Yan An just yet. They had only just met. But that was all useless now.

________ _ _ _ _

“You stargaze? That’s so cool! But Junhui’s already lent me a ton of books, so I’m good for now.” Something must have shown on his face; Yan An was too kind for his own good.

________ _ _ _ _

“Wanna go down?” He kept a smile pasted on his face, even though underneath he was a boiling mass. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Yeah.” Yan An grabbed his phone and followed Junhui out the door. 

________ _ _ _ _

“I’m sorry,” Yan An said when they were sat on the benches next to each other.

________ _ _ _ _

“Why are you the one saying sorry?” Junhui half-snapped out, still annoyed at his mother and a little bit at how Yan An was being so nice regardless, and also at himself for even directing his annoyance at Yan An, who far from deserved it.

________ _ _ _ _

He let his head fall into his hands and groaned. “Sorry.”

________ _ _ _ _

“You didn’t want to show me the constellation stuff, it’s okay, I get it.” Did he? Junhui wasn’t sure. Junhui sighed.

________ _ _ _ _

“The constellation thing is our thing. My mom and I.” It was colder than usual, and Junhui shivered a little. “It’s not that I didn’t want to show you, it’s just. Private. Or special.” He hoped he was explaining it properly so that Yan An wouldn’t take it personally.

________ _ _ _ _

Yan An placed his arm over his shoulders and gave it a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Hey, like I said, I get it.” He smiled, and Junhui couldn’t help but smile back.

________ _ _ _ _

“You’re really nice, Yan An.”

________ _ _ _ _

“An An,” he corrected. His hand was still resting on Junhui's shoulder, but surprisingly, Junhui didn't mind at all.

________ _ _ _ _

“Right. An An,” Junhui said, and nodded his head. He turned his head to look up at the stars, noting how they really were brighter tonight.

________ _ _ _ _

_And when the moon is high and bright_  
_Stars will shine on you_

________ _ _ _ _

_Make a wish and when you close your eyes_  
_I will come to you”_

________ _ _ _ _

Eight’s song came back to him in a rush, and he found himself humming the last two verses under his breath.

________ _ _ _ _

“What’re you singing?” Junhui remembered that he wasn't alone, and he was about to say that he’d heard it on the radio. A flash of movement caught his periphery and the answer faltered on his lips. His eyes followed the movement, and there he saw Eight on the adjacent bench, and he choked.

________ _ _ _ _

“Hui? What is it?”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight sat exactly as how he would when they were at the park, cross-legged, head on one fist and inclined towards Junhui, the other hand resting on his lap – ever the picture of beauty and calm. He was looking at Junhui now too, gaze inscrutable, eyes gleaming in the darkness, mouth a thin line. Junhui thought he might have looked angry.

________ _ _ _ _

“Uh, nothing. I uh...I just thought I saw some cat or something,” he managed to drag his eyes away from where Eight was and stutter out something believable. Yan An looked over to where Junhui had been gawking at, and it seemed as if he was looking right through Eight into the bushes.

________ _ _ _ _

“Huh. I don’t see a cat.”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight seemed to smirk, and a cold chill ran up his spine. This wasn't the Eight he knew. “You-you don’t right?” A puzzle look crossed Yan An's features, and when Junhui swung a look back Eight had vanished. _I’m going crazy,_ he thought to himself. _I’m seeing him when I’m awake too, just like after the first dream._

________ _ _ _ _

“Hui? Are you sure you're okay?” He pulled at Junhui’s elbow, but something told Junhui that he needed to move away.

________ _ _ _ _

“It’s fine,” Junhui leapt up and off the bench, and placed a hand to the back of neck to scratch at it sheepishly. “I’m fine, just that I have a morbid fear of cats.” He’d become better at lying after meeting Eight. “Sorry for being so lame, haha.”

________ _ _ _ _

Yan An scoffed but it was a playful one. “You’re not lame, we can’t all be cat people.” He stood up, shivering a little too when the breeze ruffled his hair. “Well, shall we go back up? I think my mom might want to head home soon, she has to open the restaurant early tomorrow.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, sure.” Junhui turned to the staircase, but not before he sneaked another quick, desperate glance at the benches again. Nothing. His heart sank a little, and he found himself rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously. During the entire walk upstairs, he made sure to keep a sizeable distance between him and Yan An, even he didn't know why he felt like he had to.

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

One more week passed in dreamless sleep, and Junhui was becoming more afraid that he was slowly descending into a delusional state completely of his own doing. Did it mean that every dream he had had until now had just been exactly that - just dreams?

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui had never expected to come to a point where he actively wished to wake up with scratches or a smattering of bruises and in cold sweat calling out a stranger’s name. Eight had now inserted himself into both his waking and sleeping moments, like as if it had been Eight all along who had been the one trying to fit his puzzle pieces into Junhui’s jigsaw, instead of the other way around.

________ _ _ _ _

He tried the same methods of falling asleep – the sound of rain or water, imagining Eight next to him at the park, or standing together as they watched the waves roll towards them but never quite touching them. 

________ _ _ _ _

Everything failed.

________ _ _ _ _

_Come on, Junhui_ , he scolded. _Come on, you’ve created so many dream-deaths, surely you can be creative about this too._

________ _ _ _ _

"Fuck,” he said aloud. That was it.

________ _ _ _ _

He grabbed his dream journal and his phone and headed for the bathroom. When he had made sure that the lock was in place, he filled up the tub with warm water and climbed in - clothes and all. He placed his phone and journal at the edge, just in case. And then he sunk under the water and let every image of Eight fill his mind.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui was sure that it was coming to a minute of being underwater, because his body was shaking so hard and his mind was screaming for oxygen. It took all his strength to fight it. He splayed his hands resolutely against each side of the tub, keeping him grounded and below. His body protested violently, pulling more tremulous fits out of him and it took every inch of his fibre to lock his arms in place. Everywhere hurt again, but it was worse than dying in the other dreams, because he knew that this was purposeful and that he could stop it if he wanted to. He opened his mouth for air but only water entered, and his mind screamed at him again in betrayal. A string of bubbles floated up to the surface and he closed his eyes tightly so that he didn’t have to see that fresh air was just mere centimetres away.

________ _ _ _ _

His lungs swallowed another round of water, and he knew this would be his last. Numbness was slowly coiling itself around his body. He let himself have one more image of Eight take hold before his eyelids before slipping away to the void, but then a hand thrust itself into the water and yanked him harshly up and into the real world once more.

________ _ _ _ _

He hadn't died this time, but the pain ran rampant everywhere. His throat was raw from swallowing water down his windpipe, and it hurt to breathe. His eyes were all red and sore from opening his eyes underwater, so all he could make out of his saviour was a blurred figure.

________ _ _ _ _

A hand thumped down hard on his back and then arms came to wrap around his chest, squeezing his diaphragm to expel the excess water from his lungs. He coughed everything out, and his legs collapsed back into the tub.

________ _ _ _ _

“Wen Junhui.”

________ _ _ _ _

When Eight’s voice rippled out, time seemed to stop. He felt those strong arms tighten around him, and the warmth of his body felt like coming home.

________ _ _ _ _

“Eight.” He whispered it like a prayer that had been answered, and perhaps it had been. He dangled his head back to rest on his shoulder, uncaring of the water soaking his shirt.

________ _ _ _ _

“That was incredibly stupid of you. You could have –"

________ _ _ _ _

“Died.” The answer ripped out of Junhui’s mouth so easily. “Yes, but that was always the plan, wasn’t it?”

________ _ _ _ _

He turned to face Eight, and he made a mental note that he was in a black button-down now, with black jeans. His face had returned to its usual blankness, but he couldn’t fool Junhui.

________ _ _ _ _

“You were there, when I was with Yan An.” He let his tone sound as accusatory as possible. The way Eight's lips pressed against each other spelt out more truth than anything he could have said.

________ _ _ _ _

“You’re real.” 

________ _ _ _ _

“I’m as real as you want me to be,” he was so quick to gather himself back. His arms were still loosely wrapped around Junhui. Eight was such a natural at it, but Junhui was determined not to be distracted, not like before. 

________ _ _ _ _

“No,” Junhui shook his head obstinately. “You’re really real. You’re not some made-up figment of my imagination. You _exist_.”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight cocked his head to the side, eyes calm and considering. He held Junhui for a moment more and then he was releasing him to climb gracefully out of the water, leaving Junhui cold and alone. He looked like the same stranger Junhui had met at that beach, so aloof and alluring.

________ _ _ _ _

“What makes you say that?” Junhui supposed that he could have fallen asleep in the bath, with this being their new dream location. But his senses tingled. The way Eight hadn't tried to deny anything, how he had stopped him from really dying dispelled all the seeds of doubt.

________ _ _ _ _

He shook his head again as a way to focus. “You were different, that night when you asked me to make a wish. You never tell me stories, or tell me about yourself. And that song…it wasn’t just a song, was it?” He thought back hard to the lyrics, and how the stars had coincidentally seemed brighter and that it had been a full moon too.

________ _ _ _ _

“Those were _instructions_.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Hmm.” Eight crossed his arms and sat down on the tiled floor. “You’re quite observant, Wen Junhui.” His fingertips brushed the surface of the tiles, turning them a myriad of bright colours. The colours changed fluidly, flitting from red, to green, to orange, to blue, to yellow, before finally resting on an icy blue.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui was stunned into silence, and even though he was still in the bath, still soaked to the bone, he simply couldn’t move.

________ _ _ _ _

“What if I told you that I come from the moon?” Fire seemed to dance in Eight’s eyes when he posed the question, lips upturned in a smirk, head tilted up to gauge Junhui’s expression. Junhui thought back to how he had described Eight as otherworldly, and thought how he couldn’t have been more accurate.

________ _ _ _ _

“Why all the deaths?!” Junhui blurted, having suddenly found his tongue. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Don’t you? You just tried to kill yourself to see me. I think you understand quite a bit already.” 

________ _ _ _ _

That had just been instinctive, if Junhui was being honest. But he let Eight give it to him. He leaned his arms over the edge of the tub because he needed something to hold onto. “So you need people to die...in dreams...to see you?” 

________ _ _ _ _

“No. But someone needs to die in the dream, to bring back a mark. So that after a while, they realise that what happened in the dream was real.”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight saw the gears turning in his head, absorbing his answers, so he didn't say anymore. Junhui could sense that he wanted him to figure it out, and was giving him time to mull. Eight scooted closer to him, and when he moved, the icy blue floor rippled around him, as if he was sitting on water.

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui,” he gently took Junhui’s hand, standing and leading Junhui out of the water, onto the watery floor. It was cool to the touch on his soles, but his legs were numb from being submerged for too long, so he leaned heavily on Eight and sunk to the floor again. “What did I do after I sang the song?”

________ _ _ _ _

“You. You asked for me to make a wish. And then,” here he scrunched up his nose as he pulled himself back into the memory that he’d replayed in his head so many times since, “and then you blew on the back of my neck, and I fell asleep.” His eyes widened as he finished his sentence and the pieces fell into place.

________ _ _ _ _

“The Sandman. You’re him.”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight smiled gently and drew Junhui to him, warming him up with his body. “When they realise it’s real, they look for me in the real world and ask for me to take them back. Very few are able to find me in the first place, because they never pay attention to my song.” He stroked Junhui’s cheek softly, eyes and touch tender. “But you were also one of very few reckless children who didn’t pay attention _and_ who tried to kill themselves to reach me beforehand.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Them?” He breathed out, again not understanding.

________ _ _ _ _

“All children of the moon are mine to take,” Eight said simply. “Did you know that your father’s surname was Moon, and not Wen? Your ancestry is Korean, and your ancestors were worshippers of the moon and keepers of the Moon Goddess. Therefore, you belong to me.” He said it so simply, but it meant the world to Junhui.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui pressed his nose against Eight’s shoulder because he didn’t know how else he was supposed to answer to this new information. He hadn't known his father was Korean, only that he passed away when he was really young. His mother had never mentioned anything contrary to him being Chinese, either. He didn't know anything, but he didn't want to right now either. Eight smelled clean, like the fresh air whipping past you on a cool spring day. He breathed it in and sighed.

________ _ _ _ _

“What about those who aren’t children of the moon? I thought you give all children nightmares or dreams. But I never had a single dream the entire time before I met you.” Or before Eight had come to him. 

________ _ _ _ _

“ _That is a gift I grant to those who are mine_ ,” he said, and this was spoken into Junhui’s mind instead of out loud. His voice was calmer and deeper, as if he was more comfortable when conversing like this. “ _I’ve always given the moon children a choice to remember, or to forget. You have always chosen to forget.”_

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui let that sink in before asking his next question. “Have I ever dreamed of you and forgotten?” He couldn’t imagine ever forgetting about Eight.

________ _ _ _ _

Eight shook his head slightly and resumed speaking aloud. “No. The beach was the first time I came to you. You wished to see the moon before you fell asleep. That’s how you let me in.”

________ _ _ _ _

Wow. If Eight wasn’t holding him, he was sure he would’ve thought he had gone crazy.

________ _ _ _ _

“Don’t leave me,” was all Junhui said, and wound both arms tightly around Eight’s neck. 

________ _ _ _ _

Eight buried his nose in Junhui’s hair and Junhui could feel a small smile against his forehead. “Your wish was for this dream to never end. Did you mean it?”

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui just nodded against his neck.

________ _ _ _ _

“Then I’ll never leave you.”

________ _ _ _ _

***

________ _ _ _ _

Preparations for the Mid-Autumn Festival always kept Junhui busy. He had to visit the markets with his mother to purchase ingredients to make mooncakes, and choose lanterns to decorate the house with, as well as to carry on the night itself. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Which flavour is your favourite?” 

________ _ _ _ _

It was midnight of the day of Mid-Autumn, and Eight was sat cross-legged on Junhui's bed, folding pieces of origami into tiny paper lanterns.

________ _ _ _ _

"Just the plain mung bean ones." And then he was turning his attention back to the lanterns.

________ _ _ _ _

Shimmers of colours wove around one of the two umbrellas next to him, while the other was pure black. The one for nightmares. A slight shudder coursed through Junhui when he pictured Eight blowing on his neck and holding the black one over his head. Maybe choosing to forget had been a good idea, after all.

________ _ _ _ _

“I never gave you nightmares.”

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui jerked up in surprise. “What?”

________ _ _ _ _

Eight patted the black umbrella and repeated himself. “I never gave you nightmares, Junhui.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Oh. Why? I wasn’t naughty?”

________ _ _ _ _

“No. Because you’re mine.” He set the lantern down onto a pile of other coloured lanterns he’d already finished making. They were artfully and so delicately made, like their maker. He beckoned Junhui to him.

________ _ _ _ _

“Moon Junhui,” he murmured when Junhui was just inches from his face, and he leaned forward to kiss him. Junhui squealed but held Eight at his forearms, unsure of where or how to respond. But Eight just deepened the kiss and swiped his tongue across Junhui’s lips, pressing him backwards. He gasped loudly and Eight kissed him once more, curling a hand around the back of his neck and another around the small of his waist to hold him in place.

________ _ _ _ _

“What. What was that for?” His voice was hoarse and his lungs felt empty.

________ _ _ _ _

“My present. Today is my day.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Your day?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Yes, Junhui,” Eight said patiently. “It’s the moon festival. So today actually is in fact, my day.”

________ _ _ _ _

“Oh. Well. Happy…Moon Day?” He wasn’t sure what else to call it.

________ _ _ _ _

Eight laughed, and his entire body shook with laughter too. He was so beautiful. “Thank you, now, let me kiss you again.”

________ _ _ _ _

He crawled forward, careful to avoid squashing the paper lanterns, and his knees wobbled when Eight licked into his mouth. Junhui wasn’t sure if he kissed all his moon children, and his shoulders tensed when he thought about how someone like Yan An would be so much more perfect for Eight.

________ _ _ _ _

“ _Junhui, forget everything. Just dream of me_.” Again, his voice filled his mind, and Junhui let himself fall into Eight and relax into the kiss, giving in to him.

________ _ _ _ _

The last thing he felt was a soft puff of breath against his nape, and then sleep came so readily to him.

________ _ _ _ _

When Junhui awoke, it was early morning and he forced himself up from bed so he could help his mother in the day’s preparations. Most of the food had already been made the day before, so Junhui busied himself with helping his mother hang paper lanterns around their apartment.

________ _ _ _ _

It was much cooler today but Junhui put on a tee and track pants so that he wouldn’t sweat too much when readying the house. Red lines stretched around his palms and fingers - they had appeared after the night after he had tried to kill himself, a shadow of when his hands had scrabbled against the tub. They still hadn’t disappeared, but if he tugged on a pair of gloves that would have made him more suspicious. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Hi Mom, happy Mid-Autumn!” He greeted his mother with a hug, careful to hide his hands by locking them around her waist. 

________ _ _ _ _

His mother hugged him back tighter. “Happy Mid-Autumn, Hui Hui.” She hadn’t called him that in a long time.

________ _ _ _ _

“I love the moon festival,” he said as she picked up a plate of freshly made mooncakes to display on the table. It was another name for the Mid-Autumn, and he hadn’t actually made the connection before Eight had mentioned it.

________ _ _ _ _

“So do I. Could you pass the other basket of lanterns please? I’ll go downstairs to pass the neighbours the mooncakes and hang some lanterns on the ground floor and then we can leave for the Yans.” They were going to spend the rest of the day with them before Yan An left for Shanghai the next day.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui got up to pass the last basket of lanterns to his mother, and he only remembered that his hands were on full display when it was too late.

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui,” his mother started to say.

________ _ _ _ _

“Uh, I can explain.”

________ _ _ _ _

“You got somebody to help you make them?” Her expression was something in between pride and amusement. 

________ _ _ _ _

“What?”

________ _ _ _ _

“You asked Yan An to make the lanterns, didn’t you?”

________ _ _ _ _

“Uh, no I actually googled and made them myself?” He ordinarily would have just said yes, but his mother would surely question Yan An in person later. 

________ _ _ _ _

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Her tone was teasing, and a smile threatened to break through.

________ _ _ _ _

_She can’t see my hands_ , he thought, and he looked down, flipping them to check if the marks were still visible to him. 

________ _ _ _ _

“There you go again, looking at your hands.” She snatched the basket away and crossed over to the front door. “If you really want piano lessons, I can ask around for cheap classes, okay, Hui Hui?”

________ _ _ _ _

“No, it’s okay, Mom! Really. Just…I’ll go hang up the lanterns at the balcony now.” He grabbed his own basket and scurried to the balcony to get to work quickly.

________ _ _ _ _

_But she could see it before_. She had seen the marks on the back of his neck, after his third dream. He was so confused now. He placed the basket down on the floor and picked up a couple of them to tie around the railing. Anxiety roiled within him and took over, and he was terrified that he really had dreamed everything now, even though he was sure he couldn’t have folded those lanterns so well.

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui.”

________ _ _ _ _

He shrieked.

________ _ _ _ _

“Junhui, you’re panicking for nothing.” Eight was sitting atop the edge of the balcony, cross-legged, like always. A silk coat of every colour adorned his shoulders, and his two umbrellas were slung over them. 

________ _ _ _ _

“You scared me.”

________ _ _ _ _

“You’re scaring yourself,” he returned with a deadpan expression.

________ _ _ _ _

“Why can’t my mother see my marks? And don’t lie to me."

________ _ _ _ _

Eight bounced off the railings, coming to stand in front of him. “I’ve never lied to you.” His gaze was careful, but not guarded, and he didn’t move to touch him, not because he was afraid of making him angry, but because he knew Junhui needed space to process.

________ _ _ _ _

“Then what? What aren’t you saying?” It didn't escape him that Eight had only chosen to answer one of his questions, but he let it pass.

________ _ _ _ _

“Do you still mean it?” Always a question for a question.

________ _ _ _ _

But Junhui still nodded, knew what he was referring to. "Every word."

________ _ _ _ _

That satisfied Eight, because the coloured umbrella burst open in his hand, and he crooked a finger to Junhui. "If you still mean it, I'll make it come true."

________ _ _ _ _

_And when the moon is high and bright_  
_Stars will shine on you_

________ _ _ _ _

_Make a wish and when you close your eyes_  
_I will come to you”_

________ _ _ _ _

He sang inside Junhui’s head, his eyes and body unmoving, hand still raised and outstretched. The moon above them was the fullest and brightest it had ever been, and Junhui could feel it in his bones that this was where his puzzle pieces fit, and that the sands of time had been carefully calculated to culminate on this day. Junhui could hear the words he wasn't saying, that this would be his last memory of Eight if he didn't take his hand.

________ _ _ _ _

Junhui walked shakily towards him, pulled to Eight like the moon's gravitational pull to the Earth, like Eight hoped he would, like Junhui himself knew he would, because after that first dream, there would never be an instance that he would never choose Eight. Eight smiled when their hands touched, and Junhui sensed a twinge of relief, and he didn’t know what to think about that.

________ _ _ _ _

"Eight," he breathed when he was finally tucked against his side, breathing in all the warmth and familiarity that his body always emanated.

________ _ _ _ _

"Minghao."

________ _ _ _ _

"What?"

________ _ _ _ _

"I usually prefer to go by Minghao. Eight is what I'm known as to the moon children who haven't understood my song yet."

________ _ _ _ _

"Minghao," he tried it out, tested how it felt to say it. Eight - no, Minghao - grinned, eyes pinched into crescents, and he bumped his forehead against Junhui's before pulling back to adjust the grip on the umbrella.

________ _ _ _ _

“To Terabithia?” Minghao asked, and Junhui’s heart swelled with something he wasn’t sure he was capable of verbalising. 

________ _ _ _ _

“To Terabithia,” he echoed, mouth moving of its own accord. Despite everything, he was still in disbelief that he was balanced precariously on the ledge of his balcony, with the promise of new beginnings standing next to him. A cloud of sand rained down from the umbrella, and the Sandman wrapped a firm arm around Junhui’s waist, drawing him closer and under. Underneath, Junhui could see all sorts of pictures flitting about on the inner side of umbrella hood, and he looked up in fascination at the endless stories that sailed above him with golden dust, pictures changing as if someone was blowing on them. A sudden, inexplicable gale picked up, hoisting the umbrella and their occupants up up and away, to the moon.

________ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I loved loved loved participating/writing for this fest, and thank you to the mods for being so lovely and understanding!
> 
> If you got to the end (thank you if you did), I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Just some extra things/notes for you guys:  
> \- the song that Eight sings to Junhui is the Song of the Sandman (Lullaby) by Enya (I've been her fan forever!!)  
> \- The story that Eight tells Junhui of the Sandman - I adapted a bit from [this excerpt on wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandman) to stay true to the story, but also came up with my own stuff  
> \- Junhui is, in fact, from Guangdong province ~~(from Shenzhen specifically)  
> \- Junhui's Korean surname is Moon (!!), so I really couldn't miss out on taking advantage of that  
> \- I can't seem to find the page where I got the instructions on lucid dreaming but I literally google-searched 'how to control your dreams'  
> \- Eight's coat at the end is silk and multi-coloured because that's apparently what the Sandman is described as wearing, in addition to carrying those umbrellas  
> \- If you haven't read/watched Bridge to Terabithia, I highly recommend it! no spoilers but it's an incredible story and has stayed with me for a long time  
> \- I actually made and listened to [this spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2mcMZA5HiTVmRvMsRvgJ1I?si=gmS9jA-6R2GRtkozrL9joQ) on repeat when writing - it's basically songs that have imagery of rain and dreams and it really helped me get into the mood. One song that is hidden on the list is millic's paradise (ft. fanxy child). For some reason it can play and appear on my playlist but as a public sharing link it disappears😔 Also, if you have any song recs please gimme a shout! I'm always on the hunt for more dream pop-esque ones~
> 
> Comments/kudos are always appreciated and you can also hmu on [my twt](https://twitter.com/moonkyoung_)💙


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